Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (17 page)

“Have you had any further thoughts about your aggressor's invitation—as it were—to Courvoisier's hanging?” Dupin asked as we gulped down our drinks. “Occasionally sleep may prompt a memory.”

The macabre invitation had been included in the packet left for me in the carriage and was accompanied by further letters written by my grandparents.

“It infected my dreams, but the little sleep I managed brought no useful recollections. I cannot think why Mr. Mackie would wish to meet me at such a gruesome location.”

“It is far safer for him to reveal himself in a crowd, which the hanging will provide. And he wishes to unsettle you, of course.”

“I have terrible reservations about this assignation. Surely it is safer to wait for Mackie to make himself known to us here at Brown's?”

“He certainly will not do that for he will fear arrest.” Dupin placed his pocket watch and purse upon the table and added: “I strongly suggest that you leave behind your watch, money, any jewels, your handkerchief. Pickpockets, cutpurses—all of London's villains will be in high attendance.”

“Your evaluation of the audience we will encounter does little to make me feel safe.” I knotted my pocket watch and purse inside my handkerchief, but left my locket around my neck. Dupin noticed my refusal to relinquish it.

“It would be wise to leave the jewel here,” he said, nodding toward its location. “I will wear these for protection.” Dupin drew on a pair of black kidskin gloves that obscured his gold and lapis lazuli
chevalière
.

“I made a pledge to Sissy to wear my locket always. It will be quite safe.”

Dupin shrugged, entirely unconvinced. “It is your choice. You must obscure the jewel completely with your stock and refrain from touching your fingers anxiously to its location or it will be gone.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a snuffbox. “A necessary precaution, I fear.” He opened the box, dipped in his fingertip, then daubed a goodly layer of clear balm under each nostril. Dupin handed the container to me. “The scent of London streets is rarely agreeable, but this morning we will experience the malodorous vapor of the mob itself. This is but a partial remedy.”

I applied the unguent in the manner Dupin had demonstrated and was overwhelmed by the scent of Christmas.

Dupin was amused at my reaction. “Oil of Neroli, clove, calamus and benzoin Sumatra. I have found it very effective for masking unpleasant aromas while simultaneously clearing the channels to the brain.”

“Extraordinary. I have never encountered such a remedy before.”

“It is said to be a discovery of the Comte de Saint-Germain. Perhaps vanquishing the city's vapors was his secret to immortality,” Dupin said with a thin smile. His attempt at levity did little to calm me. “Shall we commence?” he asked.

I inhaled deeply, drawing in that joyous smell of Christmas, hoping to repel the fog of dread that clung to me. “If we must.”

* * *

The streets of London were as bustling at half past four in the morning as they had been in the afternoon and our progress was slow. House windows were lit up with candles and the gin shops were open for custom. Coaches careered past, drivers swearing ferociously at each other. Pedestrians tramped all around us in a mob, which seemed a living entity in itself. Our mad carnival had no need for the grotesquery of masks or costumes, for reality was sufficiently monstrous. The overblown sense of revelry was riddled with unease and the cold whiff of fear. When we reached Snow Hill at last, St. Sepulchre's bells rang out six o'clock, and Newgate Prison came into view. There, hideously before us, was the gallows, pressed up against a small door in the prison wall. I came over quite numb, and Dupin reached out to steady me on my feet.

Our fellow onlookers were far less affected by the props on the stage before us. Men and women wove their way through the unending crowd, selling snacks and drinks and execution broadsides with “his last true confession” and promising details of the
execution, which had yet to take place. Every shop window with a view of the gallows was hired out to spectators. Houses overlooking the scene had faces peering from each window or voyeurs gathered up on the roof. My heart was pounding and my breath was near squeezed from my body as we surged forward, ever closer to the scaffold, pushed by the crowd. Truly I wanted to fight my way out of this sea of people and Dupin seemed to sense this as he steered me forward by the elbow.

“There is nothing to fear,” he said. “Trust that it is better to confront your enemy than to have him tracking you like a hunter.”

“It is difficult to imagine Mr. Mackie playing the hunter when his gaudy attire makes him so highly visible.”

“Perhaps he was incognito while on the
Ariel
and his garb is normally sober.”

“Whatever he is wearing, I will certainly recognize him from his insolent demeanor.”

“Auburn hair and mustache, approximately five foot six, stocky, pale skin, green eyes and perhaps thirty years of age,” Dupin recited. “A theatrical voice, surfeit of confidence and lack of objectivity.”

“That is precisely how I remember him.”

“And so we must try to fathom how your grandparents' letters came into his possession and what within them provoked his ire. And of course why he believes this is the appropriate location for your assignation.”

“Yes,” I said, looking for Mackie while Dupin pushed his way through the crowd so that we might secure our place near the barriers directly in front of the scaffold.

When at last we achieved our position, we simply waited, as did all the others. The atmosphere was far quieter than I would have imagined, considering the general caliber of the voyeurs. Both sexes were present, men often circling around the women
to offer protection against the inebriated and the general crush of the thousands that thronged to witness the hanging of Courvoisier.

“Would Philadelphians behave in such a manner?” Dupin asked.

I observed my fellow bystanders chattering, drinking and singing to pass the time, thus creating an odd atmosphere of gaiety.

“Perhaps once, but no longer. Philadelphia is a city of Quakers with a great affection for peace. Only murder in the first degree is punishable by death and hangings are conducted privately, without the mob in attendance.”

“And what of the other cities in America—are they equally squeamish of public executions?”

“Not at all. In Richmond and Baltimore public executions continue and one might find that the public is as eager for the spectacle as here.”

“But you have never previously attended such an event.”

“I have until now been quite able to contain my enthusiasm for a good public hanging.”

Dupin smiled. “It may surprise you that the only public execution I have attended until now was molded in wax.”

I thought with horror of the execution scene at Madame Tussaud's and wondered what effect this terrible event must be having on Dupin. Had Mackie planned it this way? Had he more dastardly intelligence than I had presumed?

“But look at our fellow voyeurs,” Dupin said with utter calmness. “For them it is a spectacle to relish—high theater with no need to purchase admission.”

This was undoubtedly true. A well-dressed group near us was telling jokes and laughing boisterously. Three pretty sisters dressed in rag-shop clothes and greasy bonnets were taunted by sallow, raggedy lads and responded in an equally uncouth
manner. Young dandies wearing gaudy shepherd's plaid trousers and kidskin gloves dyed bilious colors—mint, turquoise, butter yellow—lounged nearby, smoking cigars and arguing about nothing of importance. Further away, a group of honest workers and their wives were gazing calmly upon the scaffold as they sipped cups of tea. There was something terrifying about their gleeful attitude toward the impending execution.

“Are you aware that Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray are also in attendance? Courvoisier's situation has caused quite a stir with the London literati.”

Dupin succeeded in capturing my full attention as he had no doubt intended. “I have been so caught up in our investigation, I confess I have read nothing about Courvoisier.”

“The London police acquitted themselves very well during their investigation. The case is a fine example of applied ratiocination. I shall outline the circumstances, for surely they must have some bearing on your assignation.” Just then the workmen began to ready the scaffold for its victim—an unpleasant accompaniment to Dupin's words.

“François Benjamin Courvoisier is from Switzerland and was engaged as Lord William Russell's valet. He was a resident at his employer's home at fourteen Norfolk Street, Park Lane, along with two other servants: a housemaid and a cook. Lord Russell was found murdered in his bed on the sixth of May this year. Courvoisier raised the alarm and claimed that a thief had forced his way into the premises and had killed Lord Russell. The police examined the house carefully and realized that the scene of the crime was constructed to suggest a ransacking, but they correctly noted that the perpetrator made several fundamental errors in his attempt to place blame elsewhere.”

“Such as?”

“A parcel was left behind for effect, but it contained items any thief might have hidden in his pockets. Nothing was stolen from
the parlor or drawing-room, but objects of value were missing from his lordship's bedroom that had been locked away in drawers or his trunk, for which Courvoisier had keys. An opportunistic thief would not be aware of where Lord Russell kept these valuables, but the Swiss valet would. Further, Courvoisier claimed that the perpetrator had forced open the pantry door to gain admission to the house, but when the police inspected the door, it was clear it had been forced from the inside.”

“And this added to the suspicions regarding Courvoisier.”

“Yes,” Dupin affirmed. “These suspicions were exacerbated by the discovery of the ten pound note, a Waterloo medal, a locket, five gold rings and five gold coins hidden behind the skirting board in the kitchen. Further, his lordship's pocket watch, which had been at his bedside on the night of his murder, was hidden behind a lead panel on the sink. Again, these are small items that any ordinary thief would have carried away on his person.”

“Only someone who lived in the house would secrete stolen items on the premises,” I conjectured.

“Correct again. Courvoisier, who had recently expressed a profound dislike for his employer and had stated his intention to return as soon as he could to his native Switzerland, was the most obvious suspect.”

Our attention was momentarily distracted from the analysis of the case by the bells of St. Sepulchre ringing out half past seven o'clock. The horror of the impending event seeped into me like seawater into a drowning man. And where was Mackie? Was he truly here to confront me or had he merely sent me to this dreadful place to taunt me? My attention was caught by several neatly dressed policemen as they passed in front of us, patrolling the space between the prison and the timber barricades that kept the spectators and ghoulish souvenir hunters at bay. Their presence gave me some comfort, but did not deter
the light-fingered. I watched a boy of no more than twelve dip his fingers into a man's coat pocket and extract a snow-white handkerchief. Dupin directed my attention toward an attractive young lady who apologized flirtatiously for jarring a corpulent man and walked away wearing a wicked smile and carrying his gold pocket watch.

“A public hanging clearly does little to dissuade the criminal element from theft,” he said.

“I wonder if the same might be said for murder. Madmen presume they will never be caught.”

“Quite right, Poe. The cold-blooded person who plots murder believes his superior intelligence will enable him to escape detection, whereas the hothead acts without applying reason and the murder is committed before he considers the consequences.”

“Or she—I would presume the same applies to the murderess.”

Dupin raised his eyebrows. “Is a woman capable of plotting murder with sufficient coolness of head and heart? Courvoisier's defense lawyer hoped to insinuate that the housekeeper or cook murdered Lord Russell and constructed the sham burglary, but this idea was dismissed as ridiculous.”

“Surely it is an error to presume guilt or innocence without analyzing the evidence.”

“Agreed.” Dupin presented one of his saturnine smiles. “However, Lord Russell was found with his head nearly severed from his body. Would the frailer sex be physically capable of such a brutal act?”

“It seems unlikely.”

“So thought the police. Courvoisier was brought to trial and he pleaded not guilty until the evening of the first day, when it was revealed that Madame Piolaine, the keeper of the Hotel Dieppe in Leicester Place, had in her possession some stolen
plate that belonged to Lord Russell. The valet immediately admitted his guilt, but declared that he began his life of crime inspired by a book about a young profligate who lost all his possessions through gambling. He then claimed that he was driven to murder after attending a play based on William Ainsworth's novel about the criminal Jack Sheppard. I am certain you can conclude why London's literati are so interested in this case.”

“Mr. Courvoisier is a devious man. He uses Newgate novels as his defense, playing on the misplaced morality of those who believe we may be driven to murder by Art itself.”

Dupin nodded. “Mr. Dickens has been accused of writing Newgate novels as has Mr. Thackeray. These allegations raise a number of questions. If one writes truthfully of evil or diseased characters, does it valorize them? Must our perceptions of a person's character be formed by the subjects he chooses to write about?”

“And should a tale's merit be judged solely by the factual elements within it without considering its imaginative qualities, originality or overall effect?” I added.